


Sons of Thunder

by notoneforreality



Series: R&D (Relationships and Dynamics) [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bond and Watson knew each other, Bond hates medical, Bondlock, Doctor John Watson, Family Dinners, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Q doesn't want to be here, Reunions, Treating Wounds, but Watson patches him up, he wants Bond to be here even less, mainly because he should be in medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: James is sent out with MI5. Q is sent out for dinner with his brother and his brother's boyfriend, who turns out to be a familiar face.In which James has a lot of luck and a helpful old friend.
Relationships: James Bond/Q, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: R&D (Relationships and Dynamics) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790158
Comments: 9
Kudos: 257





	Sons of Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Written for--  
> 29th July: Crossover Day

No one in Q-Branch has been even mildly intimidated by James since he started turning up to bother Q more than once a month. As a result, it’s not hard to work out that something’s up when half the minions startle at his arrival. He frowns, and cuts straight across to R, where she’s conducting things at the central desk from which Q reigns, when he’s not in his office. 

He’s not in his office often. James suspects Q’s absence from the war table has something to do with how nervy his underlings are, today.

“Boss is in his office,” R says, when James is still at least eight paces away and hasn’t even considered opening his mouth to ask, yet. His lips twitch upwards.

“Will he see anyone?”

R turns, smirking. “He’ll always see you. But since when have you cared about whether he’s formally available or not?”

James returns the grin and continues up to Q’s office. He knocks twice on the door, then steps inside without waiting for an answer, leaning against the door frame.

Inside, Q has his head on the desk. James raises an eyebrow, his grin still creasing his eyes.

“Has something exploded?” He asks.

Q mumbles something that sounds like ‘my life’ into the table, and then looks up to squint at James.

“Don’t have brothers,” Q tells him, seriously, as though that’s something James can control. When James raises an eyebrow, Q sighs and says, “Family is the worst. I’ve been told I’m having dinner with Sherlock tonight.”

“Not asked?”

“Told,” Q confirms. He makes a face, slouching in his chair. Then he straightens up. “Oh, right, did M send you down here?”

James stands up straight. On to business, then. “Yes. He said something about Five wanting help?”

“God knows why,” Q says as he stands and goes to retrieve something from the other side of the office. “It looks like a milk run, but they’ve requested a Double-oh. Here’s your gun, and details about the meeting point.”

“Thanks,” James says. 

Q doesn’t say ‘stay safe’, but his face goes soft for a minute, and James waves his gun in a gesture that’s come to mean ‘see you at home’, a way of sharing sentiment without being too obvious about their relationship at work.

As he leaves, however, he half turns and says, “Good luck with that dinner. Your branch are worried about you.”

He doesn’t look at Q’s expression, but R is scowling at him from the war table, and James grins back at her, unrepentant.

* * *

Perhaps Q should have wished him luck, James thinks six hours later, crumpled in an alleyway after being shot. He’d met two agents from across the river and helped them make their delivery, only for one of them to turn, making a desperate grab for the briefcase right outside the drop location. 

James neutralised the threat and sent the other agent running back to Five, but now he’s alone in an alleyway with a dead body and quite a lot of pain. 

The question now is what to do about it. He’d usually slink back to Q’s flat and either let him do patching up or coax him into going to medical, but Q is at dinner with his brother, and James probably shouldn’t interrupt that.

Q is going to be angry at him either way. It’s a choice between angry now about interrupting his event — which he would be, even if he hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place — or angry later about James choosing to bleed out in an alleyway instead of getting someone’s attention. The Q in his head makes a snarky comment about perhaps debriefing at Six and attending medical there, but James hates medical and refuses to go without Q, refuses to surrender himself to the awful, sterile blankness of it.

The bin he’s leaning against moves, and James hisses air in through his teeth, short and sharp, as it jostles his ribs. They’re bruised, if not cracked, and he can only hope that none of them are broken. Bruised ribs are irritating, cracked ribs are painful, but broken ribs are deadly.

It takes him at least five minutes to pull on his jacket, but when it’s on and buttoned up, the red stain blooming across his white shirt is hidden from all but the most intense scrutiny. He grits his teeth for long enough to hail a cab, and manages quite a polite tone when asking for Leicester Square.

* * *

“You wouldn’t mind coming outside, would you,” James says, half an hour later, keeping his voice in a bright tone that in no way suggests that the metal rails outside Yates’s are the only things keeping him upright. 

Still, Q isn’t placated for a second. “I thought you were on work trip,” he says. The noise through the phone makes it clear he’s already moving. James wonders if he excused himself from the table before he took the call, or whether he’s just upped and left without explanations.

“There was a problem with the project.” James offers a smile to a woman leaning on a chair the other side of the barrier, cigarette in her hand. “If you wouldn’t mind….”

He doesn’t get to finish the thought before Q steps out from Garfunkle’s. James hangs up, because Q has already dropped his mobile but not the call, and flicks the bottom of his shirt just the tiniest bit.

It’s enough. Q’s face pales and his strides lengthen, although not enough to look like he’s in a rush. 

“Christ, James.” Two words, free of any anger, irritation, or annoyance. Then: “What the bloody hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the office for this kind of troubleshooting?”

Amusement floats around James’ head as he listens to Q talk without giving anything away. The pain is floating in his stomach, too, and it takes a great effort to pull himself together long enough to say, “GSW, right, just under ribcage. BFT to ribs.”

“Christ,” Q says, again. He loops his arm through James’, and that’s nice. They haven’t done public displays of affection, really. He’s pulling him towards the restaurant, though, rather than away from it, and James frowns

“Why are we going back in there?”

“Because you have an unholy amount of luck.” Q doesn’t offer any more reasonable explanation. He’s right; James is the top of his field, but there have been far more bad situations that he’s escaped through chance alone. To think otherwise would be stupid, would make him reckless.

Most of Six would argue that he’s reckless enough already. James would argue that he knows when to trust his luck, and when to let things lie; he’s been gambling since he was eight, after all.

Somehow they’re in the bathroom already, and James lets his head fall back against the wall of the cubicle in which Q has stashed him. The sensation of it barely registers against the competing pain from his torso.

“— are you talking about?” The door opens on a conversation already halfway through, and James frowns. His brain is trying to register something about the voice, but half of his attention is being demanded by the pain in his side.

“I promise I’ll explain later, but trust me that nothing illegal has happened. I just need your help,” Q says. He’s found a civilian he thinks can help, then. It’s an odd move coming from Q. He’s more paranoid than James when it comes to people learning things they shouldn’t.

When he opens the door to the cubicle, it’s hard to say who is more astonished: James, or Captain John Watson.

“Fucking hell, Bond, what are you doing here?” Watson’s gaze drops, and then he’s moving closer, hands reaching to assess the wound. “How have you managed to get shot in a Garfunkle’s toilets?”

Q makes confused noises for a moment, then falls silent. 

“I didn’t get shot in the toilets,” James says, tipping his head back, again. He stares at the ceiling and hisses as Watson prods around his torso. “I got shot in Wimbledon, and decided I really fancied a black and blue burger.”

“Wimbledon is closer to Vauxhall than to Leicester Square,” Q hisses. James drops his chin for long enough to fix Q with the most intimidating stare he can muster. Q doesn’t look impressed. “Did you at least give R a warning, or...?”

When he doesn’t get an answer, he sighs, long suffering, and fishes his phone out of his pocket, presumably to tell R that James is alive and in some sort of custody.

The door bangs open, again, and Sherlock Holmes stalks into the room.

“What are the two of you—” He stops, and glares at James. “I remember you.”

“Mr Holmes,” James says. Whatever Watson is doing means that he can think again, and his voice is almost normal. “I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced.”

Holmes glances disgustedly between Q and James, and Q rolls his eyes.

“Mycroft’s already had at him, so you can keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Met Mycroft Holmes, have you?” Watson spares his attention from the wound for long enough to flick his eyes up to James, amusement dancing across his face. “Were you kidnapped, too?”

“He broke into my flat, and James was home before I,” Q says. “Sorry about the kidnapping.”

That gets even more of Watson’s attention. “You know, I think you’re the first person to apologise for that.

“I think I got all the manners in the family.”

“Not enough manners to invite your boyfriend to dinner, apparently,” Watson says. “Would have been nice for a reunion that didn’t involve a bullet wound and broken ribs.”

“I was working,” James tells Watson. “Which is why I’ve got a bullet wound and cracked ribs,” he says, hopeful.

“Nice try, but they’re definitely broken,” Watson says, rolling his eyes.

Their paths hadn’t crossed much during service — Watson was army and James was navy — but James had met him at an event for former servicemen and they fell into an easy, if loose, friendship. 

Q sighs. “At least we’ve finished the main course. I think we’ve got cheesecake in the fridge, and I’d rather you stitch him up on our couch rather than in a public toilets.”

They go home and Watson and James share stories while Watson treats him, and Q and Sherlock maybe have an argument that involves half-spoken sentences and a lot of exaggerated facial expressions. (At one point, Q says, “You weren’t supposed to tell Mycroft about the bomb!” and Watson says, “I think the Holmeses attract bombs. It’s a good thing we know how to deal them.” and James says, “The bombs, or the Holmeses?” and Watson grins.) 

Someone puts Capital on the radio and eventually the cheesecake is dished up, and Charles and Ada come to investigate the larger-than-usual party in the living room, and James thinks that maybe family isn’t as bad as Q suggests.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep notes:  
> \--in which, for the millionth time, I come up with excuses as to why Bond is operating on home soil  
> \--The apostles James and John are given the name 'sons of thunder' by Jesus. This has literally no relevance besides the fact that this fic was supposed to have a bit more James&John interaction but also I'm bad at titles so if I find one that halfway works I'm keeping it  
> \--I miss Leicester Square Garfunkles (fun fact: when I was younger, I was convinced that the restaurant was called Simon and Garfunkles and was connected to the duo somehow)  
> \--the broken vs cracked ribs debate is vaguely inspired by Four (or Five) Reasons for Kidnapping Tony Stark which is part of a very fun extended universe of marvel fics that I enjoy very much


End file.
